


Family Business

by utsushiame



Category: NG (Visual Novel)
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Decapitation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Spoilers, Misunderstandings, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parallels, Post-Canon, Revenge, Sadism, Ship Tease, Swearing, Violent Thoughts, Vomiting, i mean look it's gen but they all still love each other. i can't stop that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/utsushiame/pseuds/utsushiame
Summary: After fighting the supernatural embodiments of vengeance and hate, there wasn't much left in the world to be worried about.How nice if that were true, but Amanome is quick to learn that, spirits or no, the world will keep on turning.
Relationships: Amanome Seiji & Hazuki Kaoru, Amanome Seiji & Kijima Akira
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52





	1. A Reprieve, Or Lack Thereof

> **SPECIAL** : The Spirits Which Will Bring The Prophesied End?!
> 
> _Urban Legends and Spirits of Tokyo_
> 
> _The Untold Legend of the Doll_

Good to know that OOParts was as trashy as always. Holding the magazine between thumb and forefinger, as if it were a wet rag, Seiji couldn't help but grimace at the thought of Hazuki lapping this nonsense up. He almost felt sorry for her, a gullible girl living in such a cruel, devious world.

But she wasn't on his mind for long. An electronic click sounded from the phone sandwiched between his neck and shoulder, and he tucked the magazine away as a familiar voice offered him a friendly greeting. “Yeah?”

The friendly, of course, was relative. “Yo, buddy.” Seiji replied, eyes scouring the rack for something that was less offensive to his senses. Not that he'd have much luck at a cheap store like this. “You busy right now?”

“I'm with Hazuki.”

Speak of the devil… Akira hadn't actually answered the question, but Seiji had known him long enough to fill in the blanks; he hadn't said ‘yes’, so the two were just shooting the breeze, not up to anything of drastic import. Probably no spirits involved, thank god.

Still, though he knew the answer, Seiji couldn't resist having some fun at his friend’s expense. “ _Really_. Just the two of you, at your apartment? Well, I don't want to interrupt…”

“Can it.” Seiji didn't have to think hard to see the glare Akira was shooting down the line. “What do you want?”

“I'm at Seven-Mart, if you need me to bring over some flowers, or wine…”

“I'm hanging up.”

“Alright, alright.” Seiji chuckled to himself. Despite how serious he was, or perhaps because of it, Akira was too easy to wind up. It was one of the many reasons why he enjoyed the boy’s company so much. “I need you to come pick me up.”

“Can't get one of your goons to do it?”

“What can I say, I'd rather enjoy the company of my best friend.”

He heard something crackle on the line, Akira huffing if he had to take a guess. It was one of his oddities, that he didn't accept ‘because we’re friends’ as an excuse to pay favours or just pass the time together. It made sense to be so cautious, given the sort of world they inhabited (and Seiji would be lying if he claimed to _never_ have ulterior motives in mind) but Akira hadn't changed his stance in the ten years they'd known each other, and maybe Seiji was a little annoyed at the lack of special treatment.

“Wait,” Akira’s voice brought him back to the conversation, “you said you're at Seven-Mart? You don't mean the one near my place?”

“I do.” Seiji ran a finger over the pages of a magazine, even though Akira couldn't see his attempt at playing nonchalant.

“It's a five minute walk.”

“Therefore, I must have a good reason for asking you.”

“It better be because your leg’s broken.”

“So violent, as always.” While his tone was reproachful, Seiji couldn't help the fond smirk that curled up his mouth. It didn't stay there for long, as his eyes moved from the rack to the store’s window, a blanket of darkness staring back at him. “I'm being followed.”

“What?”

“Stalked, trailed, shadowed. A car's been on my six since I left the underpass.”

“A ca-“ Another crackle on the line, accompanied by a squeak- Akira hopping off his bed, no doubt. “Start with that, you idiot!”

“I might be in danger, and that's how you treat me?” For anyone else, joking in this sort of situation would be a coping mechanism. For the son of a Yakuza, however, the prospect of being shadowed wasn't a distant fear, but a realistic probability. He'd already come to terms with the idea of this happening, and knew getting worked up about it wouldn't help at all.

Now, if he could somehow apply the same logic to facing spirits, then his life would be all sorted.

A female voice sounded over the line- Hazuki, probably asking what was going on. “Stay in the store.” Akira commanded. “Is there anyone else there?”

“A shopkeeper.” Seiji cast a glance over to where the bored, twenties-something man was lounging at the counter. “They could've snatched me in the underpass, so I don't think they're professionals. That, or…”

“Or what?”

“It could be my father’s men.” It would make sense; he'd been freed from house arrest, but given the brutal nature of the death that'd put him there in the first place, it wouldn't be unreasonable for his pops to take some precautions. “Still, I don't want to risk that not being the case.”

A door slammed on Akira’s end of the line. “We’re taking my bike. Be there in five.”

He was tempted to make another crack at Akira and Hazuki’s alone time, but stilled his tongue. He didn't want to get out of this predicament just to deal with a Kijima-shaped bruise as a reward. “I'll be here.” He said instead, waiting for the line to disconnect on Akira’s end before he pulled the phone away.

He tucked it into his pocket, brought his attention back to the window, and bit back a curse. The car in question had been parked near the store, on the other side of the road, too far away for Seiji to make out its license plate or passengers. He didn't have to ponder over the latter anymore, however, as three men had exited and were now approaching the store.

Seiji ducked behind the rack, peeking out from its side rather than over the top. With his furtive glances, he tried his best to commit the men's features to memory; they were painfully generic, but the sort of generic you'd see in a construction site or some other laborious job. The type to pack muscles that Seiji wouldn't have a chance against in a straight-on confrontation.

As the men entered through the store entrance, Seiji moved to the front, but behind the shelving unit furthest from the door- the closest he could get to it without being seen. Two of the men walked in the direction of the counter, leaving the burliest to stand guard. Focusing past the hum of the fluorescent light, and the quiet music playing on the radio, Seiji could hear a mumble of conversation. Seconds later, he heard someone shuffling through the staff door in the back.

So they'd coerced the clerk to keep back until they were finished. Their disregard for being caught in public pointed to one of two possibilities- they were amateurs, as Seiji had thought previously, or they wielded such influence that covering their tracks wouldn't pose an issue. Either way, it wasn't looking good for him. He'd almost prefer a group of experts: newcomers wouldn't know that roughing up a Yakuza child would be the last thing they ever did in their short, painful lives.

Risking a glance over the shelving, Seiji saw one of them take root behind the counter, while the second started his way down the row. Two to keep him in the store, and one to sniff him out. He had maybe twenty seconds before the man looked down the third row and found Seiji hiding there. His only chance was to surprise the one at the entrance and hope he could run fast enough that he'd catch Akira before they caught him.

His mind now crystal clear and set on its objective (a state not dissimilar to how Akira described his mindset in a fight) Seiji cast his eye around the shelf, looking for anything that could give him an advantage. If he couldn't fight strong, then he'd fight dirty. Just his luck, there was nothing sharp, but he found the next best thing and wasted precious seconds tearing open its casing.

Surprise in hand, Seiji crouched down in preparation to launch himself into a sprint. He watched the man at the entrance carefully- he could look one of two ways, towards Seiji’s hiding spot or towards the back of the store, and once he turned to the latter…

Now.

Seiji managed two large steps, putting himself halfway to the entrance, when the man caught his movement and turned back to face him. His mouth opened to warn his co-workers, giving Seiji the perfect opportunity to thrust his hand forward, a fistful of flour exploding against the man’s face and swarming into every orifice available.

The man staggered forward into the store, choking as the powdery substance clogged up his windpipe. Seiji planted a hand on his back and shoved, leaving a white handprint against the black of his jacket as the man was knocked off-balance and the counterforce propelled Seiji out of the store and into the balmy night air.

He couldn't waste a second celebrating, as he heard yells and the stomping of feet from the other two. Immediately he took off, running adjacent to the store, the adrenaline now clogging his thoughts and nearly making him forget which direction would lead him to Akira’s apartment. He hadn't kept his word to stay put, but given the circumstances, he was sure Akira would understand.

Focused only on putting one foot in front of the other, he didn't catch the movement out the corner of his eye until it was too late. All he had was a half second to think _There’s a fourth_ before he was body-checked against the store, his skinny frame crashing painfully against the wall before rebounding him down onto the concrete.

His body screamed. From skull to toe his bones had been rattled, and a hiss of pain escaped him as he desperately tried to get his arms under him. A boot planted itself firmly in his back before he could, the pressure of it eliciting another groan. Meaty hands wrapped around his wrists and yanked his arms behind him, tight enough to make his shoulders cry out. Seiji tried to cry out too, on the slim chance that a passer-by would take notice, but the man pinning him down was joined by a second that forced his hand over Seiji’s mouth.

Cigarette smoke and sweat. Seiji recoiled from the stench, but no amount of thrashing was enough to displace the men. “Sneaky little bastard…” he heard a third mutter, his shoes the only thing that Seiji could see until he crouched down, something long and glass-like in his hand.

The man gently squeezed the plunger of the syringe, ridding the liquid inside of any air bubbles, and for the first time that evening Seiji was struck with fear. Not a fear of needles- something that could be packaged and classified, like his phobia of spirits- but a deep, instinctual panic, a fear of the unknown and of encroaching danger that had been hard-wired into his DNA from primal days. He had no idea what the liquid was, and what it would do to him, and that triggered a panic in him that he hadn't experienced since he'd first lain eyes on the Urashima Woman, and the world that he'd known had come crashing down around him.

With a newfound frenzy, Seiji tried everything to escape. He arched and dipped his spine, trying to slip out from the man straddling his back; his unrestrained legs kicked out at anything and everything; his teeth gnawed at the flesh that prevented him from calling for help. All was for nought- the men only pressed down harder, until Seiji could barely move at all, only able to watch with frantic eyes as the needle drew close and then plunged into his neck with a single, sharp spike of pain.

Its contents emptied, and Seiji slumped in defeat. If it was fatal, then his death was now inevitable. If it wasn't… well, he still couldn't do anything about it. He was a realist, and that was the reality he had to accept now. The man who’d injected him drew back, but not before Seiji got another glance of the syringe, its inside stained red from the backwash of his blood- an image he knew would haunt his nightmares if he were fortunate enough to live to experience them.

The boot removed itself from his back, but the pressure on his wrists and mouth remained as Seiji was hauled to his feet. Already he could feel the effects of the syringe, a bout of vertigo knocking his balance off-kilter. The two men struggled to follow his haphazard swaying- which, in a sudden burst of inspiration and defiance, led Seiji to force his legs to go limp.

Amazingly, it worked. The men hadn't been expecting it, and with a cry of surprise they dropped Seiji to the ground. Without a second to waste, he rolled onto his front and made a mad dash for freedom. Or, at least, he tried- the second he shifted his weight back to his legs, a wave of nausea rolled over him. He struggled to his feet, but his movement was slurred, uncoordinated, his body listing to and fro.

It was no surprise, then, when a boot kicked into the back of Seiji’s knee and dropped him instantly, his head smacking against the concrete and causing spots to burst across his vision. The taste of wet copper filled his mouth from a gash that his tooth had left in his lip. He was hauled back to his feet, and he considered spitting the bloody mess into the first mug that he saw, but it was all he could do to keep the fraying threads of his consciousness together.

With his head spinning, his mouth full of blood, and his body as responsive as a marionette with its strings cut, there wasn't anything left for Seiji to do but let the men drag him back to their vehicle. The rear door opened and he was all but thrown onto the backseat, limbs flopping uselessly against the worn nylon. The fabric was a fine match for the cotton that filled Seiji’s brain, sponging his every thought until he could barely remember his own name, let alone process the predicament he was in.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the door remained open by his feet. He heard- and maybe felt?- a deep, rumbling engine, which had to belong to the car, but he was sure the driver’s seat was empty. He heard talking from outside, but it was too loud for talking, maybe it was shouting instead, and there were other strange sounds too, like something colliding with something else, and groaning, and more things that were loud and unpleasant and made his head throb…

With what little strength he had left, Seiji forced his neck muscles to cooperate long enough for him to lift his head. His body reverberated with a dull, heavy ache, his vision listing and distorting to the point that he almost didn't recognise the shape that suddenly flew into his vision.

It was one of the men, his face violently slammed against the frame of the car door. Seiji stared blankly as his body crumpled to the ground. What..? Had he imagined it? He blinked languidly, but the man didn't re-appear. Instead, black fingers curled around the door’s frame. The metallic stench of blood wafted into the vehicle, matching the taste across Seiji’s lips from his own injury. The fingers tightened their hold, and then, then…

Then the demon appeared.

A demon of black leather and fur, with deep, dark eyes tinted red by the light. Seiji shivered, willed his body to move, but move it did not. His sight fractured, so now there were two demons reaching into the car, their leathery claw trailing up Seiji’s forehead and peeling away his sweaty fringe. Despite the horror before him, the roiling in his gut, the leather felt almost soothing against his feverish skin. At least he could enjoy that mild comfort before he was killed.

“Amanome..!”

As the demon’s voice washed over him, fierce but so strangely familiar, Seiji’s eyes rolled into his head and he lost his hold on the last dregs of consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean there's spirits in Spirit Hunter... I thought it was all about that yakuza lyfe.
> 
> This was supposed to be one chapter but then... it wasn't... it's still only three chapters or so, it just felt too clunky as a one-shot. Look forward to the terrible trio in the next one!


	2. The Father, The Son, And The Sinful Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, however brief, can be a messy process. But that's what friends are for, right?

_“…all the poli…”_

_“No… em involved with...”_

Snatches of conversation flitted through Seiji’s senses, as muffled and incomprehensible as most of his thoughts were right now. His stomach twisted from the taste of blood, the subtle up-down motion he was experiencing, and also probably the drugs still circulating his system. And yet, his body was too tired for him to start heaving. All he could do was bob along, too exhausted to even open his eyes.

Where was he?

The motion triggered some long-lost point of recognition in his mind, and with nothing else to do Seiji chased it down. There was something heavy and warm that his body was pressed against, his arms and legs wrapped awkwardly around it. His feet dangled in the air, but something was supporting him from beneath his thighs.

A piggyback..?

That's right… He's six years old and he's just skinned his leg from ankle to knee. He's bawling his eyes out and his father is yelling at him to stop- boys don't cry, especially not those with Yakuza blood. And yet, after Seiji forces his tempest down to a sniffle, Taizou crouches down and offers his back, carrying his son all the way home while his favourite suit ends up stained with dirt and blood.

Pops had always been like that- a doting father and a tough-loving family man, his darker side only revealed to Seiji when the heir had been old enough to grasp the concepts of death and cruelty. By then he would've walked through fire for the sake of the man who'd raised him, and nothing that Pops had done, past or future, could change that.

Still, while he basked in the warm nostalgia of the memory, Seiji realised there was something off. The fabric rubbing up against him wasn't the starch of his father’s suit, or even the silk of his yukata. It was something cheap, a little ragged- Seiji would have turned down the ride if he'd had a choice in it.

Still, the warmth wasn't too bad… His head lolled against the person’s shoulder, and he used what little strength he still possessed to inch himself closer to their neck, a soft huff of contentment escaping him as he was rewarded with more heat. The body holding him aloft tightened, and he heard them speak again, their words still indecipherable.

_“…nome? You… ke?”_

He got the feeling that the questions were directed at him, but he didn't have enough energy left to move his lips. A hand pressed itself against his forehead, belonging to someone besides his carrier. It was clad in something soft, the fingers delicate.

_“…eems to be…eep. Are you s…n’t want to ta…ospital?”_

_“Yeah…isn’t the fir…this has…ened.”_

_“What?!”_

Seiji couldn't keep himself awake any longer. He stopped trying so hard to piece the scene together, and instead allowed the warmth to envelop him completely.

* * *

The next time that Seiji awoke was not nearly so pleasant.

For starters, the reason he'd been aroused- a painful heaving in his throat as his body finally accumulated enough energy to expel the drug from it. He was lying face-up, on a mattress with springs that dug into him, and he made the wise decision to tip to his side before he barfed in his own mouth.

The sight that greeted him was Akira’s apartment, but not Akira himself- it was Hazuki instead who flinched back as Seiji leant over, body shaking as it retched of its own accord. “Uh- um!” Hazuki fretted for a moment, then hastily scrambled to her feet. “I’ll get- j-just hang on a second!”

Easier said than done. Seiji could feel something forcing itself up his throat, and no amount of deep breaths and mental concentration could stop it. Thankfully, a wastebin was only a short distance away, and Hazuki was able to slam it against the bed frame just in time for Seiji to lose the contents of his stomach.

For the next minute or so his body heaved and shuddered, Hazuki doing her best to keep the hair out of his face. He'd have to thank her later, when he didn't feel like he'd been dumped on death’s door. Eventually the convulsions stopped, leaving him gasping for air while the remainders of spit and bile leaked out of his mouth. A faint taste of copper too, from the scabbing cut on his lip.

If this was how bad he felt, then he didn't even want to consider how terrible he must look.

Hazuki had the good graces to be gentle with him; offering him tissues to clean up, and then easing him back down onto the bed. “I'll, um, dump this.” She said, wastebin in hand (wisely holding it away from her body). Seiji could do little but groan in response, and then listen as she made her way into the toilet to dispose of his vomit.

Now that it was out of his system, and the smell wasn't permeating the room quite so badly, Seiji could feel his strength slowly seeping back into him. He gently put weight on his forearms and then lifted himself up onto his elbows. A quick scan around the room confirmed it was empty.

The kitchen sink ran, and then Hazuki returned, wet cloth and cup of water in hand. “Where's Akira?” Seiji asked, wincing at how croaky his voice was. He gladly took the cup as Hazuki knelt back down next to the bed.

“Picking up his bike. He carried you back here, so it was left at the store.” So that's why Seiji had a groggy memory of a piggyback ride. Heat suddenly rose to his face as he remembered how he’d snuggled up to Akira for body warmth. Thank God the shoe wasn't on the other foot: Seiji would've teased Akira about it for weeks, but knowing Akira, he'd probably already forgotten about it.

Hazuki offered the cloth and he took that too, thankful for the chill to combat his fluster. “And the men who grabbed me?”

“You'll have to ask him when he gets back. When we left them…” Hazuki winced at the memory. “Well, they weren't awake.”

“They'll have scarpered if they know what's good for them. Though I have their license plate, so they can't really escape.”

The thought of getting his well-earned revenge was the first positive thing Seiji had experienced since waking up. He tried not to smirk too gleefully, though it caught Hazuki’s attention regardless. “You're gonna… get back at them, aren't you?”

“Of course.” He dabbed his forehead with the cloth, looking to her with a softer smile. “But that's not for you to worry about.”

“You can't just say that.” His reassurance became surprise as Hazuki stared back, an unusual fierceness in her doll-like eyes. “Kijima said this wasn't even the first time you've nearly been kidnapped.”

Seiji nodded. “In elementary school, and… I suppose once or twice after that, though they were dealt with so easily that I hesitate to call them ‘attempts’.”

“But… How can you live like that?! And be so casual about it?” Her hands balled into little fists atop her lap. “It's horrible…”

She _was_ worried. Seiji didn't know how to feel about that. Everyone else that he knew, the Kijimas included, accepted that danger was simply a part of his life. There was no point bemoaning his place in the world when he'd been the one to choose it. Hazuki was just being naïve.

But he had enough tact to keep that to himself. He merely shrugged instead. “I could ask the same about your occult obsession. How d’you keep trailing after ghosts after seeing first-hand what they're capable of?”

“That's different…”

“How so?” She didn't need to answer; he could see it in her eyes. The pity. Poor Amanome, ordained by his family ties to lead a criminal lifestyle, desensitised to the sort of horrors that would leave a normal teen traumatised. She'd _chosen_ a dangerous life, but he'd been forced into one. That's what they said.

It was vile.

“Look now, Hazuki…” Finishing off his water, Seiji deposited the cup and cloth by the bedside before he continued. “In my first year of high school, my pops took me to his office and showed me a man that he'd tortured to death. Or what was left of him, anyway. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice to say it took a month to get the stench of blood out.”

“Anyway, pops turns to me and says ‘Son, _this_ is the life of a Yakuza. You're either stupid enough to get put in that chair, or you're the one putting men in it. That's the sort of danger and cruelty you'll be dealing with day in, day out.’ He said that, if I didn't want that, then he could arrange to have me separated from the family.”

To say it'd been a turning point in Seiji’s life was an understatement. His father loved him more than anything else in the world, and it was because of that love that he'd been willing to skew tradition and let his son live a life free from the blood-soaked underbelly of the Yakuza. New surname, new family, new Seiji.

“And I said to him,” he continued, Hazuki staring at him in rapture, “that the only way I was leaving the family was in a body bag.”

He scooped the cloth back up, lying himself down on the mattress and splaying it across his forehead. “I'm not a victim of circumstance, Hazuki. Don't ever think that I am.”

The apartment fell into silence. Seiji allowed the cool water to seep into his skin, ridding him of the last of the sickness-induced fever. If the drug they'd used on him was anything like the sort that his family used, then Seiji should be up and running at full power by tomorrow. To think he'd been so scared of the needle when he'd first saw it. How pathetic.

“I don't think you were given as much of a choice as you thought you were.”

His eyes slid over, surprised again by the retort. Hazuki _did_ have a backbone, despite what her demure appearance would imply, but she didn't usually challenge him once the topic of the Yakuza came up. But more interesting than that was her expression; downcast, her eyes nowhere near Seiji. As if that hadn't been meant for him at all.

How interesting. But before he could pry, the front door was shouldered open, and Akira made his grand appearance. “You're awake.” He greeted, blunt as always.

“Welcome home,” Seiji sang back, smirking at the dull stare he received in response. He lowered his gaze, eyebrow raising at the red shirt and exposed arms that greeted him. “No jacket today?”

“You got your blood and drool all over it.” Akira jerked his head, presumably in the direction of his laundry pile.

That had to have been during the piggyback. Seiji tried not to flush. “Send me the laundry bill. You get your bike back?”

“Yeah. Got these too.” Akira’s fingers slipped into his pocket and came out with something small and rectangular, which he dumped on Seiji’s chest.

It was a cloister of ID cards, revealing the names of every one of the men that'd tried to abduct Seiji. He fanned them out, scowling at the vermin that'd nearly gotten one up on him. “For me? You shouldn't have.”

Akira grunted. “Figured you'd rather deal with them than have me do it.”

“You know me so well.” His tone was glib, but he did genuinely appreciate the ‘gift’. Akira wasn’t the most empathic boy in the world, but he and Seiji were on the same wavelength when it came to revenge. Sometimes you had to grab it with your own hands, or else the victory would be hollow.

As Akira returned to the kitchen, Seiji shot Hazuki a quick, silent look. Partly gloating- see, _Akira_ understood Seiji and the life he led- and partly a warning- if Hazuki wanted to keep this close to them, then this was the reality she'd have to accept. Their wickedness went deeper than sneaking past ‘No Entry’ signs and giving the cops a good run-around. Their hands were stained black, not grey.

To her credit, Hazuki held his gaze with a stern resolve, her brows pulled into a frown that didn't match the soft roundness of her features. She did have some admirable traits, even if she was still an occult fanatic with her head in the clouds.

“So.” Seiji spoke again, diverting the topic. “What could you and Akira have possibly been up to in this apartment all alone?”

“Eh?” Hazuki didn't take the bait, or at least played it off well, her hand waving dismissively. “Oh, yeah, before this. Ami wants to come to my next concert, so Ms. Natsumi had me check if Akira could play chaperone.”

“Something you couldn't have handled over the phone, I'm sure.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “Don't act like you don't do the same…”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

Akira came back before their back-and-forth could evolve into a spat. “Eat up.” He said, depositing a bowl of what looked like hastily reheated broth on the low table by the bed.

The smell of it made Seiji’s stomach churn. “I just threw up. I'm not gonna hold that down.”

“You'll feel worse if you don't eat.” Akira retorted- and given he was the world’s expert on skipping meals, intentionally or otherwise, he was probably right. Still…

“Come on now.” Hazuki’s usual cheerfulness returned, her hands clapping together in an attempt to be authoritative. “Unless we need to play aeroplane for the big bad Yakuza kid.”

Akira’s lips quirked, the closest he usually got to a smile. Seiji glared at them both, but took the opportunity to give his friend a proper once-over. The nightmarish visage that had saved him… it had to have been the drug messing with head. Or the last month of chasing spirits had gotten to him. Maybe both.

In any case, Akira didn't look any different now than the hundreds of other times Seiji had laid eyes on him. Putting his concern to rest, Seiji sighed and kicked the covers away. “You even think about trying that and I'll bite your fingers off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene:
> 
> Hazuki: So who's gonna tell your dad about what happened?
> 
> All three, knowing full well that Papa Amanome will be on the warpath: Not it.


	3. Full Circle, And Beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inevitably, everything changes. It's not always for the better, but sometimes it can leave you stronger at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, chapter contains a major spoiler for the Kubitarou case, and a mild spoiler for endgame. NG's endgame, not Avenger's Endgame. I won't spoil that Shrek kills Thanos with an onion.

Not far off from Kissouji Station was a building sandwiched between two others that could've been copy-pasted during their construction. The plain brick walls, displayed AC unit, and square windows with modest white blinds pointed to them being a cluster of offices, though so nondescript that the average passer-by would forget them as soon as they were out of sight.

That was precisely the effect that the Amanome family had been hoping for.

The centre building was one of their many subsidiary offices, from which they could carry out operations on a lesser, inconspicuous scale. Seiji currently found himself in its basement, lounging in an armchair that he'd had one of his men carry down from the main floor. Renovating the basement would be antithetical to its purpose, but that still didn't mean Seiji had to squander in discomfort.

The leather creaked as he brought up his left foot to rest against his right knee. The sound reminded him of Akira’s glove against his forehead, and the heat of his jacket as he'd carried Seiji to safety. It'd been so quick, so flawless- so very expected of Akira. A sudden, painful pang of envy roiled in Seiji’s gut. He tempered it by reciting the many favours that Akira owed him in turn.

The door burst open and a man was shoved through, falling to his knees as his bound hands kept him from maintaining balance. The person who'd pushed him in- one of Seiji’s henchmen- shut the door behind them and then took root behind the captive. Seiji jerked his head in a silent command, and the henchman nodded and wrenched the blindfold off of the captive’s eyes.

“Takeshi Asahara.” Seiji’s voice was calm and practised, the movement of his hand graceful as he reached to the stand next to him and lifted from it a small rectangle of plastic- one of the ID cards that Akira had gifted him yesterday. “Ex-construction worker, dabbling in drug deals after being made redundant, and eventually catching the eye of- what were they called, the ‘Kitagawa Trailblazers’?”

The man didn't reply. Out of defiance, fear, or perhaps the ugly swollen bruise across his jaw that wasn't present in his profile picture. Seiji smiled, hiding his venom beneath a veneer of faux-concern. “I can see where my associate has already had words with you. You should count yourself lucky that you didn't lose any teeth.”

“…Not that it'll matter for much longer.” He could feel his grin widening, tearing at the façade to reveal the wickedness underneath. But hell, why be subtle? This was a special occasion after all.

His fingers danced across to the stand once more, running lovingly over the object that awaited him there. Grasping it with two fingers and a thumb, he brought it into view and savoured the gradual peeling of Takeshi’s stoicism, his eyes widening perceptibly and his teeth grinding together as Seiji twisted the syringe so that the light caught it.

“Look familiar, hm?” To really drive the point home, Seiji tilted his head to one side, revealing the irritated red skin that surrounded the pinprick hole in his neck. He'd hidden his facial bruising underneath a layer or two of foundation, but felt it appropriate that the vermin see at least some of the damage he'd caused.

Seiji nodded again and his henchmen grabbed the nape of Takeshi’s shirt collar, dragging him to within spitting distance of the heir. Seiji actually considered doing that for a second, but felt it was enough to see the blood drain from Takeshi’s face as the syringe wavered before his eyes.

In an odd way, seeing the fear grow in Takeshi’s eyes was twice as sweet after having experienced it himself. By turning the tables, Seiji felt like he was reclaiming that fear, taking his victimisation and converting it into power. A vengeful dog bit twice as hard. “Look on the bright side, Asahara. You'll be a fine example to the rest of the Trailblazers. Maybe this’ll cow them from making decisions that are so monumentally suicidal.”

“Wuh-Wait!” As the needle drew closer to Takeshi’s neck, the man finally broke, beads of sweat forming across his forehead. “I'm sorry, Mr. Amanome. It wasn't our idea! It was Fukui’s, our superior!”

Seiji couldn't help but roll his eyes. How predictably pathetic. They signed up for a life of hard crime and then started bleating like lambs when the wolf came back to feast. They'd let anyone into a gang these days. “Thanks for the name- now I know who's next after you four are taken care of.”

“No, Mr. Amanome, wait, please, I-” As pitiable as the display was, the witless frenzy in Takeshi's eyes _was_ rather delectable. “I-I got a kid! A family! _Please_!”

“What a coincidence- I have a family too. Pops was less than pleased when he found out what happened. Said he was going to- ah, what was it, Takenaka?”

The henchman cleared his throat, displaced by the sudden question. “He, uh, he said he'd skin off their gang tats and hang them on his wall, sir.”

“Right, right.” Seiji turned back to Takeshi, his smile humorous. “You're really getting off lightly, wouldn't you say?”

“Mr. Amanome-”

Seiji’s expression dropped, and with sudden ferocity he leant forward and yanked at Takeshi’s hair until his neck wouldn't bend anymore. “Don't dirty my name with your tongue again, you little rat.” With that hissed in the man’s ear, Seiji pierced Takeshi's neck with the syringe and emptied its contents in one clean plunge.

As before, a wisp of blood plumed into the barrel as Seiji tugged it out of Takeshi’s skin. He considered the little ribbon of red as Takeshi’s breathing grew laboured, his eyes bugging out of his skull. “What- What'd the hell you just put in me?!”

Seiji held the syringe in the air like a cigarette holder, beads of blood gathering at the needle’s tip and then dripping to the ground. Drip, drip, drop. With each splash his smirk grew wider, his eyes possessed by a joyous, manic energy.

“I guess we'll find out, won't we?”

* * *

One of the many perks of being the most feared individual at school was that, when Seiji wanted his space at lunchtime, he got it. All it took was a smile and a nod to the door for the handful of students to vacate the classroom, leaving him alone to pick out a seat and enjoy the warm rays streaming in through the window.

Seiji hummed contentedly to himself, picking up a tune from one of his CD’s as he deposited his lunch onto the desk. Still in the throes of fury, his pops had taken to the kitchen with gusto, resulting in a lacquered jūbako stuffed with enough food to feed Seiji for a week, never mind a single lunch hour. He separated out the three boxes and then stared at them quizzically, unsure even where to start.

His saviour arrived in the form of a trademark frown and disregard for social niceties. Kicking the door shut behind him, Akira snatched up a chair while on the way to Seiji’s desk and then plonked it down opposite him, falling into it with a weighty huff of air. Not a word passed between them as Akira added his bento to the feast, immediately helping himself to Taizou’s extravagant dishes.

As if in exchange, Seiji started his own meal with the salmon from Akira’s box. While not armed with his father’s considerable cooking expertise, Akira’s recipe was still surprisingly enjoyable, a far cry from the overcooked, unflavoured messes that he'd started out with. How fortunate for Seiji that he had so many people in his life who could cook good meals for him.

“You take care of them?” were Akira’s first words, mumbled around the edges of a kombu roll.

“Eat with your mouth closed, you barbarian.” They shared a comfortable glare over the desk before he continued. “But yes, we rounded up the last of them yesterday. The Trailblazers will think thrice before stepping foot in our territory.”

“And you?”

“Never better.” He procured a baby sardine with his chopsticks, pointing the fish accusingly at his friend. “So you can stop giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you're just waiting for my seams to come apart.” Akira opened his mouth to argue, but must've realised there was no point. They were both stubborn enough that forcing the issue would be fruitless- especially since, as was often the case, Seiji was right. So Akira slouched in his seat instead as Seiji bit the head off his fishy friend. “I'm disappointed, Akira. I would've thought you'd know better than to fret over me.”

The taunt made Akira’s jaw twitch, something Seiji noticed with amusement. What caught his attention more, however, was the rare look of contemplation across Akira’s face, his tongue rolling in his mouth as if he were physically mulling his thought over. Seiji munched down a wad of grated daikon, giving Akira the time he needed to speak his mind. It wasn't often he used it, after all.

Eventually, Akira sighed, his gaze moving off to somewhere outside the school building. “I know you were scared.”

“…Excuse me?”

In Akira’s hand, the chopsticks tapped absently against the deck. “When I was doing my laundry,” he began, still avoiding Seiji’s eye, “I grabbed my jacket to throw it in, and… you left a little blood on it.”

Seiji could piece together the rest from there. “You spied on me, is what you're saying?”

“C’mon, I wouldn't do it on purpose. I just got a glimpse and then dropped the thing.”

Feeling anger slowly well up within him, Seiji took a breath and then huffed it out in a derisive snort. “You need to get that hand checked, then. And that head of yours too. Like I'd be scared of some bratty little upstarts…”

Now Akira turned to stare at him, and it was worse than if he'd replied because, with nothing else to focus on, the muted concern deep in his eyes was as bright as a firework. “You _should_ be afraid, Amanome.”

Seiji’s hand tightened around his chopsticks, leaving grooves against his fingers that he failed to notice. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Was that your laughable attempt at a threat?”

“No…” Akira stopped his sticks from tapping, which was good, because Seiji had been getting closer to stabbing Akira’s hand with his own utensils. “Guh, look... This shit’s dangerous, Amanome. If I'd gotten there a minute later then you would've been gone.”

“Then be faster next time, if you're that twisted up about it.”

“I _would've_ been if some idiot had gotten to the point quicker.”

“Oh, so now the whole thing’s my fault?” The anger in Seiji’s stomach twisted into something cold and dangerous. He was furious, yet excited, a combination he knew full well to be volatile. He wanted to slam Akira’s head against the deck. He wanted to jam a chopstick in Akira’s eye and see if he felt like biting back then. He could live without one, right? He might even look good with an eyepatch.

“I'm not saying that.” Akira faced him head-on, as if sensing his bloodlust (given how beastly he could be sometimes, that very well may be true). The endless black sea of his eyes brought Seiji a little closer to normal, like waves lapping gently on the shore. Akira was his best friend. Of course he couldn't hurt him like that.

But God, he wanted to right now.

“Amanome.” Akira tried again, his words slow and selected. “You could be dead, or worse. You were knocked out and in their car. That's playing it way too close.”

He was right, honestly, but Seiji was too riled to allow him any sort of victory. “What's this? The fearsome Akira Kijima wants to make sure we're playing safely?”

“I'm serious, you wiseass.”

“As am I.” Seiji brought his chopstick up and jabbed it in Akira’s direction. “I'm seriously pissed that you're acting like a baby all of a sudden.”

Akira’s free hand balled into a fist, and his veins pulsed from holding his punch back. Seiji wished he wouldn't. A punch to the face would at least make more sense for Akira than whatever nonsense he was pulling right now.

“…I get it.” Seiji stabbed his chopstick through a shrimp, imagining its body writhing in pain as he tore off its flesh with his teeth. “You saw how I get with spirits, and now you don't think I can handle myself anymore.”

“What?” If Seiji had bothered to look, he would've seen the genuine bafflement on Akira’s face. “No-”

“I expected this from Hazuki, but you? Maybe she's been a bad influence.”

“That's not it, you idiot-”

“Then _what_? What is it?” Seiji brought his stick down again, but this time left it impaled in the shrimp’s carcass. “Rub those two brain cells of yours together and tell me what the _fuck_ is wrong with you.”

The rage was so clear in Akira’s eyes that Seiji flinched instinctively, his body tensing for the inevitable strike. He saw the impulse blossom in Akira’s mind, chair legs scraping against the floor as he prepared to leap forward and sock Seiji a new one.

But then, at the last moment, he stopped. He sighed. And he collapsed back into his seat. “I saw your dead body.”

Silence struck like thunder. Seiji was frozen in place, the cogs in his brain coming to a grinding halt as he tried and failed to process Akira’s words. If it were anyone else, he'd think they were messing with him.

But Akira. Akira didn't lie like this.

“Not even that, it-” Akira’s words cut themselves off, his hand coming up to thread through his unruly fringe. That was the thing that was truly disconcerting- not that Akira claimed to have saw his corpse, but that Akira was _rattled_. “It was your fucking head. In Kakuriyo.”

Oh.

The worst part was that it made sense, and that made it real. Seiji raised a hand to his neck, remembering the paralysing anxiety when they'd been stalking down the streets of Kintoki. When they'd found Maruhashi’s body, the stump of his neck dolled up garishly. And in Kakuya’s strange little world, the same fate had befallen him…

“I heard your death scream.” Akira continued, staring daggers into their lunch. “I smelt your blood just as clearly as I'm smelling this stuff right now. And your eyes… it was like you'd died from shock before the axe.”

The last time that Seiji had felt humbled, he'd just been knocked on his ass by the moody little brat who would later become his best friend. Now he could feel the shame flaring up once more in his stomach, spreading ever higher as it swallowed his rage and bloodlust for fuel.

“…Jesus.” He said eventually, slumping in his chair to match Akira’s downtrodden posture. “That's messed up.”

“And that's why you gotta be more careful.” Akira concluded. He stared so intensely at Seiji that the brunette could feel it buzz through his entire body. “I don't want to see that shit again, Amanome. We're not dealing with spirits anymore, but _we're_ still human.”

If Akira wanted an apology then he'd have to do a lot more to wrangle one out of Seiji. But conceding the point, that was only fair. “Alright, I got it. If trouble comes up then you'll be the first to know.”

“And it'll be the first thing you tell me.” Akira added, pointedly.

With a roll of the eyes, albeit a fond one, Seiji fished out a chicken piece from his lunch and passed it over to Akira’s bento. “Sure, sure. But in return, _you've_ got to tell _me_ when you're having your next play date with Hazuki.”

For a second he worried that he'd been too glib, and that he'd be the victim to violence today after all. But once again, Akira tempered himself and instead put his energy into tearing the chicken apart. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, his expression now as straight-laced as always.

Had he seen Hazuki in Kakuriyo too? Akira didn't have time for a lot of Hazuki’s supernatural nonsense, and beside that they didn't have much else in common. And yet he let her tag along anyway, her presence remaining a fixture in their group even after the spirits had been dealt with. Was that his way of protecting her?

Was Kakuriyo also to blame for what Seiji had seen in the car that night? He'd all but convinced himself that it was purely a drug-induced distortion of reality, but every now and then… he wondered.

The spirits may have gone, but their influence remained. There was inevitably going to be problems going forward, but perhaps Seiji had been too lax in thinking the past was behind them. Perhaps, also, he'd been ignorant to believe that Akira had washed his hands of the ordeal and been done with it. Even the greatest fortresses could be cracked.

With that in mind, Seiji felt the last of his anger fizzle away. He pressed his chopsticks against one of the boxes and pushed it closer to Akira, his smile a little warm, a little teasing, and a little indescribable. “Eat up, partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this Akira angst get mixed into my Seiji fic?
> 
> But there we go, all done! Thank you so much to everyone who commented, left kudos, or even just had a quick read through. The fandom is small but so encouraging, and I can't wait to get started on my next endeavour 💞


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